Home is where the art is

By Pam Pardy Ghent

Like most moms would say if asked, I’d offer that I’ve been a pretty good mother to my kids. Both are alive and well, so that’s always a good start when it comes to good-mothering evidence.

Neither has a police record either and I’ve yet to have any real fuss over smokes, drugs, booze, or bad-influence friends. Granted, one kid is only eight, but still, so far (knock wood) she’s clean and sober. As most moms are apt to do, I’ll take the credit for all that; thank you very much.

But if us moms let the truth be told, few among us would win any lifetime achievement awards and most of that ‘good mom’ stuff we’re shelling out is good for fertilizing flower boxes.

snaps of art

Back in the Brody-was-young days, I kept every slip of paper he ever scribbled on. Four moves taught me the error in my ways the hard way, however, so now I have new tactics for hand-drawn treasures.

These days, I snap a picture of my wee darling’s art work with my phone and post them on Facebook.

I then toss the original in the trash, confident I still hold the piece in my heart, or at least on my social media profile. Like most good moms, I lie to my daughter about where her treasures go. I tell her, Mommy files them in her special place.

A few weeks back my daughter stormed into the living room. “I found your ‘special place,’ mom!” she hissed, holding up one of that week’s craft projects, now crinkled and covered with coffee grounds.


I’ve also been caught when it comes to being an attentive, concerned, and well-organized mother. When my son was in grade six I found an envelope addressed to ‘mom’ on the hall table. I unsealed the note and read;

Mom, you ruined my life,

love Brody

I was crushed. I called my mother to the house in a panic. What in the world had I done? As any good mother would do, she pointed out my many flaws and came armed with many helpful suggestions. Oh dear! I called hubby at work in Alberta, moaning over this terrible occurrence. I believe I also drank a bottle of wine — to ease the pain, of course — and to be social. After all, mom was visiting on some random weekday afternoon!

pj day dilemma 

When my son came from school I showed him the note. He acted confused at first, then huffed in disgust. “Clean off the hall table once in a while, will ya?” he snarled.

Turns out he wrote that note when he was in grade two — four years prior — because I had taken him out of school for a dentist appointment in town and he missed pajama day.

Still, I rock at mom! Mostly.

My daughter spent five days at The Rooms with school recently and she brought home a piece she created over the week. “It’s called ‘Home,’” she told me sweetly showing it off. “It’s me and you on the beach in Harbour Mille watching the sun set together.”

proof is in the picture

I love it! Partly because it’s proof she loves me! So, I can’t be doing that terrible a job, right?

I hugged her and told her it was precious! I poked it in an envelope on the side of the microwave so I could show her dad (in your face!) when he returns from out west, and perhaps even frame it.

My daughter walked over, reached up, and took the picture out of the envelope.

“Let’s just keep this one on the fridge, shall we, just to make sure it stays out of any of your ‘special places,’” she said.

Wise kid. Proof of the grand job I’ve done raising her. That and a bucket full of dirt would start one wicked garden!

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